If You Let Me Save Him
by RaisingAmara
Summary: The photo in Dean's hand is awful, taken from too far away and grainy as hell. It's his newest target; the latest hit on his list of supernatural baddies. It looks like a man, but in reality, it's a monster that's committed horrible, unspeakable crimes. To kill it, Dean will have to convince himself that it only LOOKS human. It only LOOKS lost. It only LOOKS exactly like Sam.
1. Chapter 1

"Son of a bitch." Dean glared down at the hateful black-and-white photo like it would burn him. It had been taken from a distance, zoomed in long and blurry and then blown up much larger than recommended. He didn't recognize the street or any of the surroundings. It was just a simple long-shot taken from a window at least a block away with one of those ridiculously long zoom lenses.

Just a guy standing outside a bar named Jimmie's on a cold night, illuminated by the neon signs that probably blinked intermittently, offering cold beer and hot ladies. The photographer had snapped the pic as the lights blinked on, lighting up all the strong angles of his subject's face. The guy stood holding the door open as a woman walked through. She was tall and cut a good profile from the rear, and the guy was frowning - frowning and breathing heavily like maybe he'd just been running. There was a cloud where his breath had left his body and instantly condensed in the cold, night air, and he stood hunched forward, free hand in the pocket of his tattered jacket. At the last minute, he had looked up, right at the person holding the camera, some sixth sense possibly alerting him to danger, though there was no way he could have seen it.

It had been a year, three months and 17 days, but Dean would still recognize that face on the darkest night with just a pencil light to guide him - even blurry and grainy and too far away.

Sam.

The guy in the awful photo was Sam.

This was his target. The next creature he was supposed to hunt, and his hand shook as he placed the 8 X 10 back on the greasy table. He sat back, realizing he was holding his breath and let it out in an angry snort. He glared at the man across the way.

"It's a man." He said, biding time, weighing his options. He pulled his hands into his lap before the tremble could give him away.

The man shook his head, long gray hair moving gracefully at the motion. "It's not a man. It's a thing." Dean's companion disagreed. He tapped out a cigarette and lit it in a smooth, practiced motion. "It drinks demon blood. It mates with a demon. This girl here …" He dropped a second photo on the table.

Ruby.

Dean cursed inwardly. That black-haired bitch was still in the picture then.

"... 'cept it's not a girl. She's a demon, sure as I'm alive." the old man nudged Sam's photo with a gnarled finger, "This one, he WAS human. Had a family. Had a father and a brother. Had a college transcript. Had a fuckin' LIFE." the old man shook his head in sorrow. "Threw it all away." He flicked ashes onto Ruby's cleavage. "For that … creature."

Dean could usually read people, but he was unsure about this old man. "Why you coming to me with this?" He asked, risking a sip of cold, thick coffee.

The man sighed, sat back and looked Dean straight in the eye. "He killed someone I cared about. Except he didn't JUST kill 'em. He … drank 'em too. You're the best in the business." He glanced away, swallowing hard. "I asked everywhere. Everywhere. Got the same answer. Got you."

Dean stared, measuring. "You got his name?"

"Sam Winchester."

Dean took another sip. "Who'd he kill?"

"My … granddaughter." He suddenly leaned forward, slapping a hand down on each photo. "These two together, they kidnapped her, put her in the trunk of a car and drove her … then they … there were gallon jugs … her blood. They … he … they said he … he drank her blood."

Dean suddenly felt sick. He stood up, taking the photo of Sam with him. "Who'd you ask?"

The old man suddenly looked afraid, like if Dean left, he'd never have his chance for revenge. "There's a roadhouse. Burned down a while back, but they rebuilt it. I asked there. A girl, she looked at my picture." He nodded toward the blow-up in Dean's hand. "She told me to get in touch with Dean Singer. Gave me your number."

Dean frowned. "What girl?"

The guy stood, visibly agitated. "A girl! Some girl with a boy's name. Long blond hair. Attitude a mile high. Early 20's. She took one look and told me I had to come find you. You're the only one who can help me." the guy grabbed Dean's elbow. "Was she right? Are you the only one? Cause it sure looks like you're leavin'."

Dean stared at the old man, but he didn't shake him off. The guy was telling the truth. And he made sense. If Jo had seen the picture of Sam and realized someone was hunting him, she'd guess that Dean would want to know, that Sam would need his help.

Sam would need his help.

Sam, who had killed this distraught man's granddaughter and drank her blood while he was hopped up on demon acid. Sam, who had left Dean broken and bleeding on the floor of a hotel room to go off with his demon lover and begin the apocalypse. Sam, who had wandered so far off the reservation that there was no bringing him back now. Not alive anyway.

"Take care of this, Dean. Or we will." Cas had promised a lifetime ago.

Dean looked down at the photo in his hand. He looked down at his brother. Sam had lost weight since Dean had last seen him. He looked positively gaunt in this picture, and something else too. It took Dean a minute to put a finger on it.

Lost. He looked lost.

Dean stared back at the old man. "Got an idea of where this Jimmie's is?"


	2. Withdrawal

Sam was sick. Sicker than he'd ever been. He felt horrible, as though his insides were super-heating and drying his joints from the inside out. His stomach rolled. His very bones ached, and his knees and elbows and his back - they felt like bone rubbing on bone. In all his years of hunting, Sam had never hurt this badly. If he'd known, back then, that detoxing from demon blood would leave him feeling like this … well … it would have been overwhelming incentive to just say no.

But Sam hadn't fed again. Would never feed again. Once he realized what he was capable of under the spell of blood … no.

It had been a year since Ruby had betrayed him, and he'd broken the last seal. A year since he'd last heard his brother's arctic voice on the phone, full of hatred and promising him that he was only something to hunt now.

It had been a year since he'd had a drop of demon blood, and the withdrawal today was just as bad as it had been back then. No, actually, it was worse. A year of agony that grew sharper over time, but he deserved it for what he'd unleashed upon the world. Lucifer had risen because of Sam Winchester. He walked the Earth now, preying on the innocent, and it was all Sam's fault.

He thought briefly of his father and of how disappointed he must be, and Sam's eyes filled with tears. Another violent shiver wracked him, dislodging a broken sob before he could stifle it, making his hand quake and spilling his coffee. And in the booth behind him, two teenage boys laughed out loud.

"I think the junkie's gonna cry." one said, snorting. "Hey, you gonna cry, junkie?" The boy leaned over and dropped his empty sugar packet into Sam's cup. "There, now you got something to cry about, man." The boys chuckled as they rose and left together, Sam never meeting their eyes. Instead, he fished the used sugar packet out and took another sip from his nearly empty cup, using the sleeve of his jacket to wipe up the drips.

He felt, rather than saw, the waitress pause at his table. Without looking up, he could see the coffee pot in her hand as she moved among the table topping off cups. He heard her sigh in exasperation and move away, skipping him all together. His lower lip trembled, but he hid it behind another shaky sip of the rapidly cooling coffee.

Sam knew how he looked, how he smelled. Living on the street would do that to you. He stopped in at the day shelter for a shower and to do laundry nearly every day, but recently, the shelter had been too full, too busy. There had been no room for him in nearly a week, and he knew how offensive he must be. At least it was cold weather, and not the hot days of summer. Sam had learned to count his blessings where he could find them.

Blessings. He snorted. Like there were any of those slated for Sam Winchester. He rested his temple in the palm of his hand and thought about home. He wanted to go home so badly. Home to Bobby. Home to … to Dean.

Sam pictured his brother sitting across from him in the booth, the way he had of making even the worst situations seem solvable. "We'll figure it out." Dean would say, motioning for the waitress to refill Sam's cup. And she would because no waitress anywhere would ever leave Dean Winchester wanting for anything. "We'll figure it out, Sammy. Just like we always do." Dean would wink and smile and return his attention to his pancakes, and just like that, Sam's world would lighten because he'd know it would be true. Dean would stuff a too-big bite of food into his mouth and commence chewing like a horse, and Bobby would snort and roll his eyes, and Sam would feel … safe. Safe and protected and looked after - like someone who had people who cared about him.

He missed that. Damn. He missed it.

It hurt so much to think about them that he tried not to do it very often. Bobby's house. The old salvage yard. The small, neat room at the top of the stairs where a pre-teen Dean had read bedtime stories to his 8-year-old brother as the smell of wild honeysuckle drifted in through the slotted window. He wanted to be that kid again. Innocent, hopeful, nothing but a promising future standing between him and old age. He'd wanted to be a writer back then, back before he ever dreamed of becoming a lawyer. He'd pictured himself as a writer and Dean as a mechanic, and they'd live together somewhere in some small town where nobody knew their names or what they were capable of.

Because Sam knew what he was capable of now. He felt bile rise in his throat. The things he'd done ...

He stared into his empty cup and longed for death. Longed to be back in that 8-year-old body. Longed to have never met Ruby. Longed to have never taken that first hit.

Longed to see Dean, to tell him how sorry he was. To let him know he'd been in the right all along. But Dean would kill him now if their paths were ever to cross again. Dean would kill him, and even though Sam was perfectly willing to die, wanted it even, he didn't want it to happen by his brother's hand.

Dean deserved better than to have to carry that burden through life.

Sam's arms shook as he made a move to stand and his back spasmed. And then he was on the floor, hearing the disgusted "tsks" of the family in the next booth.

And then the darkness came and nothing mattered again.


	3. It Can't Not Be Me

Dean sat alone in the motel room, two beds between himself and the bath. Dean paid extra, had been paying extra for a solid year, because he couldn't stand the thought of spending the night in a room with a single bed. It was bad enough that the passenger seat of the Impala had grown cold, he couldn't bear such loneliness at night too. At least if there was an extra bed, Dean could tell himself that Sammy was just out somewhere, that he'd be back soon. Maybe his little brother was on a food run. Or maybe he was out walking off a fight they'd had. He'd done a lot of that toward the end.

Sam was here. Dean could feel him. He was here, in this town, and close. His eyes fell to his weapons bag. Every gun, every knife was in prime shape - clean, sharp - just like Dean needed it to be. This was too important to mess up. This was Sam. And though sleep and Dean Winchester weren't exactly on speaking terms these days, Dean stripped down to his shorts and lay down anyway. He lay on his back, and when that got tiresome, he turned and faced the wall, studiously avoiding looking at the cold and empty bed across the way.

Sam's bed.

His dreams, when he could remember them, featured various incarnations of his brother. At one time, they'd echoed the past, sending a pre-teen Sammy to him in the wee hours of those cold motel mornings. He'd dream about reading to Sam, or passing Sam in the hallway at school, or looking across the seat and razzing Sam, making him either laugh or bitchface - it was always a crap shoot. Those dreams were of normal things, but they were worse because when Dean woke up, he was left with an agonizingly empty ache where his heart should have been.

But ever since Columbus, since he'd met the girl's grandfather and agreed to hunt his little brother, Dean's dreams had changed. Now Sam was always in peril, calling out for Dean to save him. Sometimes he teetered at the brink of a cliff, nothing below him but an endless fall. The girl's grandfather was there, one hand on Sam's chest, and it was Dean's job to reach Sam before the grieving man pushed.

And Dean would try. He'd dart forward only to be slowed by the ground beneath him that sucked at his boots like quicksand. And every time, he'd slog determinedly forward, leaning into the wind that buffeted his brother along the cliff's edge and threatened to propel him over before Dean could reach him and yank him to safety.

He never made it in time. Not even once.

Instead he was always left with the echo of Sam's terrified cry as he went over. And then suddenly, the ground would release him, and Dean would pelt forward to the rock's edge and look over. And Sam would be there, falling, the ground that had been so far below suddenly rising up to meet him. The two would collide with a sickening, sucking sound and Sam's body would explode, showering blood and bits upward in an arc to cover Dean in a gory red sheet.

Dean would wake screaming on those nights, but still, they were better than the nights of good dreams. It was the good dreams of Sam as a kid or as a young man that left Dean feeling a loss not unlike amputation once he was fully awake and aware.

Dean sat up, grimacing. By the clock, it was 4 am, but he reached for his phone anyway. It rang only twice before Bobby picked up, sounding surprisingly awake and amicable for the pre-dawn hours of a weekend morning.

"Yeah?"

"Hey Bobby."

"Dean?"

"Yeah, It's me."

Silence.

"Well?"

Dean frowned, "Well, what?"

"Well who died, ya idjit? It's 4 am on a Saturday morning."

Dean smiled, "Nobody."

Silence.

"Nobody?"

"Nope."

The old hunter sighed, "Well then it's Sam, ain't it. What's he gone and done now?"

Dean swallowed hard. He hadn't shared with the class lately. And Bobby knew nothing of the old man from Columbus or his granddaughter or the fact that Sam had probably killed her in a horrendous way.

Knew nothing about Dean agreeing to hunt his baby brother.

Dean's voice was distant when he lied, "Naw. Not Sam. Just …"

Bobby waited a heartbeat, but nothing more was forthcoming. "Just what?"

"Dunno. Just wanted to hear a friendly voice, I guess."

Bobby waited, knowing. He'd gotten phone calls like this before from the boys he thought of as his own. He cleared his throat.

"You okay, boy?"

"Hunh? Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

"Where are ya?"

"Uh, Tucson."

Bobby whistled, "Hell and gone from where I left ya, aint' ya?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Why? What's in Tucson?"

Dean chewed a nail, "Oh, uh, a hunt, actually."

"What is it?"

"Demon." Dean's eyes closed as he fought to keep his voice from breaking.

A quick inhale of breath from the other end. "Damn, boy. You takin' on demons all by yourself these days?"

"Yeah, well. The band broke up, Bobby. In case you ain't heard."

Silence.

"I heard." The sound of Bobby debating, "You call him lately?"

Dean paused, "No."

Bobby sighed, exasperated. These two would be the death of him one day. "Well, do you think maybe you should?"

Dean's eyes closed again as he debated. "No, Bobby. I … I"ll be seeing him soon enough."

Silence.

"He's there? In Tucson?"

"Yeah, signs point to it."

"Signs?"

"Unexplained deaths, lightning strikes … the works pretty much."

Bobby's breath caught. "You're huntin' him?"

Dean tried to reply, but his voice suddenly betrayed him.

"Dean? You huntin' your brother?"

Dean cleared his throat. "I guess I am, Bobby. Yeah."

Bobby swore. "You idjit! How dumb can you be, Dean?"

Dean frowned. Of all the responses he'd expected from the man who'd practically raised them both, this wasn't one of them. "What?"

"What?" Bobby mocked him cruelly. "You really don't get it?"

Dean was getting pissed. "No, Bobby. I guess I don't. You wanna spell it out for me?"

"What do you think's gonna happen when you find him, Dean? When you're standing face to face with the kid you practically raised? Think you ain't gonna look him in the eye and see that 8-year-old kid lookin' back at you, begging for more of the Lucky Charms?"

Dean scowled, "Bobby …" He started, but the older man cut him off.

"Don't 'Bobby' me, Dean. I KNOW you. You huntin' Sam? Hurtin' him? Maybe killin' him? You ain't got it in you, boy. Now Sam, on the other hand ..."

"What?"

"If Sam really has gone dark side, he ain't gonna have the same reservations as you, is he?"

"What are you sayin'? You think I can't take my own kid brother in a fair fight?"

"I know you can't take him."

Dean was shocked. "Well it's good to know what you really think of me, Bobby."

"Dean, I ain't sayin' this because I think Sam's better than you or stronger than you … just …"

"Just what?"

"Just, I know you. You could never hurt Sam. You could certainly never kill him."

Dean swallowed hard, staring at the wall. "Yeah, well … Sam ain't really Sam anymore, is he?"

Silence.

"That part don't matter."

"Don't matter? What the hell, Bobby!" Dean was pissed again. They'd spent their entire lives fighting evil just like this. How dare Bobby say it didn't matter.

"It. Don't. Matter. I can't say it any plainer."

"So because it's Sam, we let him go? He gets a free pass because he was once a Winchester? We just look away and let the deaths keep on happening? He killed a girl, Bobby! He … he fucking DRANK her. She had a grandfather …"

Bobby's eyes fell closed. Dammit. He didn't need to hear this shit. Not about Sam. Not about the biggest-hearted, kindest, most puppy-eyed kid he'd ever known.

His voice, when it returned to him, was resigned. "No, Dean. It don't matter. It needs done? Fine, I'll send someone to do it. But it can't be you."

Dean's voice wavered. "It can't not be me, Bobby."

"Why?"

"It just can't, okay? It's always been just me and Sam. It … it just … I can't let just anyone … Bobby, I can't." Dean sobbed then. He couldn't help it.

Bobby's own eyes were far from dry when he spoke again. "I'll get someone we can trust, Dean. Someone who won't … won't prolong it. Someone with … humanity. Someone who knew him. Knew what a good kid he was. Garth. I'll get Garth."

Dean shook his head as though Bobby could see him. "No. Hey, I gotta go. It … it was good hearing your voice, Bobby."

"Dean! Don't you dare hang …"

Dean ended the call. He sat with the phone in his hand until tears began dripping onto the screen.

And in Sioux Falls, an old man swore and tossed a kick into a rickety kitchen chair, sending it splintering across the room.


	4. Chance Taken

Sam navigated the bleak corridors of the free clinic with relative ease. This hadn't been his first rodeo, after all. But, damn, he was hurting. When you passed out from pain in a diner where everyone was convinced you were a hopeless junkie, it was places like this where you ended up.

They'd tried to give him methadone for God's sake.

Sam snorted under his breath, finally making his escape into the chill of a grim, December night. He limped painfully along, trying to keep the warmth from dissipating, but the bank thermometer blinked a depressing 39 degrees, and Sam could feel every bite of it.

He had nowhere to go, but that didn't mean he wasn't smarter than most. Sam made for the nearest deserted parking lot and lifted the first car he saw that looked like the heater might work. He drove it right to the big hospital two blocks down and parked on the uppermost level of the parking deck. Then Sam cranked up the heater and reclined the driver's seat. He slid the shield back on the moon roof and sat looking up at the night sky as his shivering slowly abated.

Sam hurt. And he wondered if it would always be this way now - the stabbing pains in his back, the unbearable headaches, the quaking, the fever, the chills. It should have all gone away months ago, yet the withdrawal symptoms hadn't faded a bit, and Sam wished he had access to some of Bobby's old books to give him an idea of how long it took to detox from demon blood. Some days, Sam suspected there was no going back. Just like Dean had said.

It was too well lit here to see much, but Sam could just make out the big dipper. It was quiet up here and not likely to be patrolled. And even if an attendant strode by and tapped on his window, he could spin a yarn about visiting hours being over and not wanting to leave his brother all alone all night in intensive care.

He wouldn't anyway. Not like that. Not if Dean was hurt and needed him.

Sam wished he could tell his brother that. Instead, he pulled out his phone and punished himself by retrieving the message - the same one he'd listened to every day for more than a year.

"Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak." Dean snarled. "Dad always said I'd either have to save you or kill you. Well, I'm giving you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam - a vampire. You're not you anymore. And there's no going back …"

It never failed to bring him to tears. It had torn him up that night, and it still wrecked him today. Dean's voice - the voice that had soothed him when he was just a kid and woke up screaming from a nightmare and the voice that had lovingly called him Sammy more times than he could count. That voice hated him now. It was cold and hollow, cruel and cutting. And it held promises of what would happen should Sam and that voice ever end up together in the same room again.

And God, how Sam wanted to.

He needed Dean. He needed Bobby. He needed to know that he still had a family, even after all he'd done, all the mistakes he'd made, all the damage he'd caused. He hurt so much.

And he just wanted Dean to make it stop. He wanted Dean to pull him close in a impulsive embrace and hug him so tightly it felt like his heart would stop. He wanted Dean to fuss over him and make him lie down and bring him hot soup and an extra blanket. He wanted Dean to run a shower for him and make him go stand in it and then assail him with a cup of hot lemon tea when he was done. He wanted to hear Dean call him a bitch and a sasquatch and a girl - anything but a bloodsucking freak. Damn, he wanted that.

More than anything.

He rubbed his thumb absently over the screen of his phone, pulling up the single number that he hadn't called in over a year.

He wanted to do it so badly.

Would Dean even pick up? Would he check his caller ID, snort and toss his phone back on the bed?

Or would he trace the call and show up one day when Sam least expected it, wielding a machete and a look of sad determination?

A sudden tremor hit him hard, causing both legs to lock up with spasms from hell, and Sam cried out in agony. In a moment of desperation, he hit the dial button.

It rang one time.


	5. I'm Sorry

"Sammy?"

"D-Dean?"

Dean's eyes closed. He swallowed hard. This was Sam's voice. Sam's. Not some demon hopped up on … on … whatever. "Sammy. What's wrong?"

"Dean …"

Dean heard a gasp. "Talk to me, Sam. What's going on?"

"No-nothing. Just … I wanted … I wanted to h-hear your voice is all."

Dean was silent, his heart broken. This was the next name on his list. He was talking to his next hit, and it was Sammy. He ran a hand over his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, Sam. I'm here."

Then Sam surprised him. "You are, aren't you? Here? In Tucson?"

Silence. Then Dean replied quietly.

"Yeah."

"Y-you came for me, right? To hunt me? You still think I'm a vampire, right? Like you said."

Dean frowned. Yes, he'd thought it. There was no way in hell he'd have ever told Sam. "What are you talking about?"

Sam was quiet. "I still have the phone message, Dean. I … I listen to it everyday."

Dean racked his brain. "What phone message?"

"The one where you called me a bloodsucking freak and say if you ever see me again …"

Dean's jaw dropped. "Sam… what?"

"It's okay. I just … I just. I dunno. I guess I just wanted to know if you still felt that way. Will you trace this call?" Sam sucked in a breath like he was in agony, and Dean's Samdar, ingrained since his brother's birth, went off whooping.

"You're hurt. I can tell. Tell me where you are."

Silence.

"Sam. Where are you? I'll come get you."

Silence, then a small voice. "Are you here to kill me, Dean?"

Dean hesitated, choking. Then, "Sammy … I ..."

Sam smiled, Dean could almost hear it. It was a sad smile that spoke of a thousand betrayals. "It's okay, Dean. I understand. Some days … some days, I want to kill me too."

"Don't, Sam."

"I don't want it to be you."

"What?"

"That kills me. I think I probably need to die, Dean. But I don't want you to have to live with that for the rest of your life."

"Sammy, stop …"

"I'll tell you where I am. And then you can decide if you want to come yourself or send someone, okay? I … I want to see you again, Dean. You don't know how much I want those days back. I just … I hope it's not you, okay?"

"Sam, I'm not gonna …"

"I'm on the top level of the parking deck at the Southwest General Hospital. I'm in a gray Hyundai Elantra."

"Are you ... are you okay?"

That silent smile again. Dean could feel it through the connection.

"I haven't been okay in a while, Dean. I think you know that." Sam's voice said sadly. "I just … I need it to end. Tonight. I can't go on like this anymore. Dean … I've done things …"

"I know." Dean cut him off quickly, not wanting details. "I know, Sammy. And it's gonna be okay. Ain't nobody out there perfect, right? We'll figure it out, right? Just like we always do."

Sam sobbed then. "You said it."

Dean's voice was wrecked, "What?"

Sam was laughing and crying at the same time, "The thing. You said it."

Dean paused, lost. "Sammy … hey, whatever you're smoking there, save some for big brother, okay?" he snorted.

"I'm sorry, Dean. For everything. For Ruby. For the demon blood. For hitting you and leaving you behind in that ugly hotel - all of it. I'm so so sorry. I need you to know that. And …"

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose again. "I know you are."

"And, I just want … you were right, Dean. Everything you said. You were right. You were trying to do the right thing, and I wouldn't listen. I get it now. I do."

"Water under the bridge, Sam. We start over. Slate's wiped."

Sam snorted, "Good talk, Dean."

"What? I mean it."

"I gotta go. I … Dean."

"Sam?"

"I love you, man. I … goodbye, Dean."

"Sam! Wait!"

"Shit!" Dean tossed the phone onto the bed and scrambled to find his jeans and socks. He glanced at the clock. It was 4 am again.

"Okay, that's weird." He said, shrugging into his clothes and reaching for his keys. His eyes fell on the weapons bag, and he froze, the old man's voice in his ear.

" _He … they said … he … they said he drank her blood …"_

Dean sank down on the edge of the bed that would forever be Sam's.

" _He killed my granddaughter. These two. They tossed her in a trunk and drove … there were gallon jugs …"_

Dean's eyes closed and a single tear escaped to travel down the line of his nose.

" _He had a father and a brother. Had a college transcript. Had a fuckin' LIFE. And he gave it all up … for that … creature."_

Dean reached into the bag and withdrew the machete. He stood and strapped the holster to his right leg. He dug out the demon blade and handled it gently.

" _You're the only one who can help me. Asked everywhere. Everywhere. Got the same answer. Got you."_

Dean stood. He slipped the flask of holy water into his jacket pocket and swiped at his face.

"I'm sorry, Dad." He whispered, as he slipped out the door and pulled it shut behind him.


	6. I'll Never Be Done

The first light of morning brightened the Arizona sky as Dean drove onto the uppermost level of the parking deck across the street from Southwest General. His hands shook, and he kept eyes in the back of his head.

Sam had sounded like Sam.

But then again … his brother had done things that no sane human could ever do and walk away from.

Sam could be baiting him. It could STILL be a trap. If Ruby was involved … In fact, this sounded just like one of her better schemes - call him and make him think Sam was in trouble. She knew Dean would come running to spare his brother unnecessary pain, even if his ultimate plan was … well … she'd know how to play him.

She'd know. She always could play them both like instruments.

Dean took a deep breath, distressed to hear it wobble inside his chest like he was five years old and seeing the bearded lady for the first time.

Damn, she'd scared the crap out of him.

But this, this was worse.

Dean drove on until he spotted a Hyundai Elantra. It was the right color, and Dean could see someone slouched down in the driver's seat. He passed the vehicle, parking seven spaces down in the next row and waiting.

He watched.

There was no movement from inside the car. Dean studied the parking deck. If Ruby was lurking, Dean couldn't see her, couldn't feel her. He patted his hip where the demon-killing blade was nestled snugly against his jeans in its holster. He wore double protection - a machete topped by the demon knife - like a nervous bachelor checking and re-checking his condom stash. He sighed and slipped quietly from the car, approaching the Hyundai from the rear passenger side.

Dean had no preconceived notions of what to expect, but he figured it'd be one of two choices; either Sam would be alone and hurt, sincere in his wish to die, or he'd be lying in wait for his brother, playing possum until the last possible moment. Either way, Dean would have … closure.

But there was no way in hell Dean was prepared for what he found inside the stolen sub-compact.

He approached the passenger cautiously, noting the sealed trunk and the empty backseat. He dropped down to glance inside the front seat and froze.

"Sam! Fuck!" Dean reached for the door and yanked it open. He was across the bucket seat in a heartbeat. His brother reclined in the driver's seat, the back of his head resting against the glass of the window, and he looked worse than Dean had ever seen him. Sam's skin was the color of white porcelain, and sweat dripped from his drenched strands of hair and down his face to soak the ragged tee shirt he wore.

And the smell.

Dean had smelled rawheads dead a week that were less offensive than the inside of Sam's stolen car.

"Sammy!" Dean grabbed his brother's chin and tilted it back. "Sam! You with me here?" He slapped his cheeks gently.

Sam's eyes were at half-mast, until Dean grabbed his chin and forced him to make eye contact, then they grew big like saucers. Sam tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go.

"No!"

"Sam, it's just me."

Sam scrabbled pathetically, trying to get away from Dean's strong grip. "Dean! Don't! Please!"

"Sammy, calm down. Let me check you over."

"You … you were supposed to send someone, Dean!"

"Yeah? Well you know, me, Sammy. Never been good at delegatin'." Dean placed a cool hand on Sam's forehead. "Damn. You're on fire."

Sam stared at his brother, torn between feeling relieved and feeling terrified. There was no way Dean didn't mean to kill him. He'd said as much. Sam had been listening to the same threat everyday for a year.

"What's wrong with you, Sam?" Dean asked, pulling his brother forward and tugging the soaked tee shirt over his head.

Sam fell limply back against the seat. "Withdrawal." He breathed, wincing when the bones in his spine clacked together.

Dean paused, "What was that?"

"My back."

"It clacked."

"S'withdrawal, Dean. It's … I don't know how much longer I can … I can't take it. Just, make it stop, okay?"

"You comin' down off the demon juice?"

Sam nodded, his neck seizing up.

"Shit! This is what it does? Seizes you up like an old man?" Dean put a comforting hand on the back of his brother's neck, torn between wanting to hug him and being afraid to touch him.

"I g-guess." Sam said through gritted teeth.

"How long?"

"A year."

Dean blinked, "No, how long you been off the juice?"

"A year, Dean. It's been a year."

Dean stared, "You mean you haven't … in a year?"

Sam met his eyes. "Not since, since that night. I … your message. Dean. I couldn't … didn't feed after that. I swear."

Dean's eyes welled. A year. They'd wasted a whole damned year. All this time, Sam had been … he'd been TRYING." He made a decision.

"Come on, Sammy. Let's get you home. Can you move at all?"

But Sam's eyes had fallen closed on the word home. Dean didn't really mean it. He couldn't. There was no home for him anymore. "Dean … please …"

Dean glanced up from his perusal of the floorboards. Sam didn't seem to have a bag or anything. "Please what?" he asked absently.

"I … you said home."

Dean's eyes narrowed, "Yeah? So?"

Sam stared at his brother through streaming eyes, "I … I thought you were done tryin' to save me."

Dean shook his head, "I'll never be done trying to save you, Sam. Just trust me, okay? Has your big brother ever steered you wrong before, hunh?" He winked. "Now, I'm comin' around on that side. Just hang tight til I move the car. Be right back."


	7. I Got This

Bobby swore. He was gonna strangle Dean when he got his hands on him again.

Well, if the kid wasn't dead already.

It had been days since Dean's phone call, and every attempt Bobby made to call him back was met with voicemail. Well, that was until Dean's voicemail filled up. Then his phone just rang and rang.

"Damned! Stubborn! Idjit!" Bobby muttered as he tossed clothes into a scarred and beaten duffle. "If you're still in this world, Dean, you better pray I don't find you, boy."

The old hunter zipped up the bag and tossed it on the couch. He turned and rooted through the mess on his desk, coming up with an equally battered map of Arizona. He was marking the quickest route to Tucson when he heard it.

That old Impala had a distinctive rumble that anyone with an ear could hear. Bobby's head jerked up like a springer spaniel's. He beat it to the window and tugged the curtain aside to see Dean pulling right up to the porch.

The sun was glaring off the windshield, but Bobby was sure there were two heads inside. Then Dean pulled forward into the shade cast by the peaked roof of the house, and Bobby's heart dropped.

Sam's body rested beside his brother in the front passenger seat, head tilted back, eyes closed, skin white and lifeless.

Dead.

Dean had brought the body of his dead brother - the brother he'd likely killed - home for a hunter's funeral.

Bobby turned away, swallowing hard.

Whatever he'd prepared himself for, it hadn't been this. And suddenly all the older man could picture in his mind's eye was Sam that time he was laid up with a broken leg, and John had dropped both boys off with Bobby. They were just teenagers, and Sam couldn't have been more than about 15. He'd spent weeks camped out on Bobby's couch, poring through those dusty old volumes of lore like they'd held the secrets of life. Bobby had never seen the kid so happy for such a prolonged period of time. Every morning, when Bobby and Dean came down the stairs, Sam had been there - hair wild like a living thing and a bright smile lighting the room.

Bobby felt something wet run down his cheek as he lowered himself to the couch. He hadn't felt a pain like this since … since Karen.

He couldn't do it.

He just … he couldn't do it. He couldn't wrap that boy up in bedsheets and place his body on a pyre. Couldn't set it on fire. Couldn't watch the kid he'd mostly raised go up in smoke.

Damn Dean for doing this to him.

Bobby sat, waiting, but nobody came to the door. No traumatized older brother climbed the steps dejectedly, eyes downcast, heart broken. And truthfully, the older man had no idea what he would have done if Dean had.

Bobby sat, drawn forward on the edge of the couch, his face leaning against clasped hands, rocking, and waited for Dean. He couldn't meet him halfway. Not this time. He couldn't … couldn't look at Sam in the front seat - white and lifeless. He just …

"Bobby! A little help here!" He heard Dean call out from the front porch.

And Bobby swore. What the hell was the kid doing? Bringing his brother's body into the house?

The older hunter swallowed, and worked up the courage to glance toward the screen door. Dean stood just on the other side of it, Sam's arm over his shoulder, his arm around Sam's waist.

He frowned. Why was he walkin' the body in? Surely, Sam wasn't … He looked closer as Sam raised his head and their eyes met through the window screen.

"Son of a bitch!" Bobby yelled, jumping to his feet. He made it to the front door in record time, shoving it open and staring at the spectacle before him. His eyes met Dean's.

"He's alive!"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, he's alive. He's heavy as shit too, Bobby. A little help here would be great."

"Oh! Yeah. Sure." Bobby stepped out and slid Sam's other arm over his shoulders, the boy crying out at the movement.

"Careful! He's hurtin'."

"Sorry, Sam. I'm sorry." Bobby babbled.

"S'okay." Sam whispered, trying to smile at the old hunter. "S'okay Bobby."

Bobby exchanged a look with Dean over Sam's head. "What the hell happened to your phone? I was twenty minutes away from driving down there."

"Lost it. Sorry."

It was Bobby's turn for the eye-roll. "Lost it. Well that's just great, Dean. Like there ain't one damned public phone in all of got a library in that town? You still remember how to send an email?"

"I kind of had other things on my mind, old man. Ya' know? I mean, it ain't like I didn't find my brother two inches from death, curled up in some … some IMPORT."

They eased Sam's stiff body down onto the couch, Dean fluffing the lone pillow like a fussy old lady. They were as gentle as possible, yet still Sam let out a small whimper that was heartwrenching in the silence. Dean looked up at his uncle, desperate.

"We got any good painkillers?"

Bobby nodded. "Yeah. I'll get 'em." He shot a single, concerned look in Sam's direction, then turned and hurried to the kitchen.

As soon as they were alone, Dean sat down on the edge of the old couch and carefully brushed Sam's greasy hair from his eyes. "It's gonna be okay, Sammy. You know Bobby always has a stash of the good stuff hidden around here somewhere."

Sam stared back at his brother through eyes leaking tears. He nodded, a bit of panic in his movements. "This pain .. it just … "

Dean nodded. "I know. First, we take care of the pain. Then we get you in a nice, hot bath. That should help loosen up the stiffness. Make you all clean and cuddly, hunh?" Dean teased. "That'll make things better."

Sam tried to snort, but it came out as more of a groan.

Dean grinned. "Then we get you some hot soup and a good night's sleep, and then tomorrow, we start researchin' the hell out of demon blood withdrawal, okay? How's that for a plan?"

"Here." Bobby stood over them, two bottles of prescription pills and a water bottle in hand. He sat down on the edge of the coffee table and opened the first bottle, handing Dean three pills. "Pain relievers." He uncapped the water bottle and handed it over.

Dean nodded, leaning forward, he tugged Sam's mouth open and placed both pills on his brother's tongue, following up with a tilt of the water bottle. He sat back, staring. "You good?"

At Sam's nod, he looked back at Bobby. "What's this one?" He asked, accepting the third pill.

"Muscle relaxer."

"Hear that, Sammy? Muscle relaxer. Just what the doctor ordered, right?" He helped Sam take the last pill, then offered him the water bottle again. "Good?"

Sam nodded, sighing. "Good, Dean. Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby smiled, "Ya' ain't gotta thank me, son. It's real good to see you again, Sam. Damned good." He took a surreptitious swipe at his eyes.

"You too, Bobby." Sam smiled just before both legs seized up, leaving him gasping in pain.

"Dammit, Sammy. Just hold on, okay? Those pills should start working any minute." Dean reassured him. He slipped off the couch and onto his knees. Placing both hands on his brother's legs, he began cautiously kneading. "That helping any?" He asked, afraid he might be making things worse instead of better.

Sam's hands grasped the sides of the cushions so tight, his knuckles whitened. "I-I think so." He ground out between clenched teeth.

"Maybe some hot towels." Bobby mused, jumping up and heading back to the kitchen.

But by the time Bobby returned with hot, wet towels, the medicine was beginning to kick in, and Sam was resting much easier.

"What hurts, Sammy." Dean asked.

"Just my legs still, a little."

They placed the warm towels over the tense muscles in Sam's thighs, exchanging relieved glances when he visibly relaxed.

"Oh … that feels so good." Sam breathed.

"Yeah? It's helpin?"

"Yeah. It is. Thanks."

So, you up for a nice, hot bath? Cause I gotta tell you Sammy. You stink, man."

Sam snorted. "Yeah. I think so."

"Okay then, let's get you out of those clothes so we can burn 'em." Dean joked, pulling Sam gently forward and removing his soiled jacket to reveal bare chest beneath, and Dean and Bobby could count every rib.

"When's the last time you ate, Sam?" Bobby asked, horrified.

"Week. Week-and-a-half maybe."

Bobby glared at Dean. "You didn't stop anywhere on the way?"

Dean shook his head, contrite. He turned to Sam. "Why the hell didn't you say something, Sam?"

"Hurt too bad. Couldn't have kept it down anyway."

"Think you could keep something down now? You hungry?"

Sam looked ashamed suddenly, "I'm starving."

Bobby stood up, sighing. "Sounds like that's my cue. You gonna need help gettin' him in the bath? Use my tub down here. No use making him navigate the stairs."

Dean shook his head. "Thanks Bobby. I got this."


	8. I Did Stuff, Dean

Bobby looked up from the dozen eggs he was shifting around inside the skillet. "He in the bath?"

Dean nodded, "Safe and sound." he snagged a piece of bacon and attacked it aggressively.

"Think it's safe to leave him alone?"

Dean shrugged. "Pain meds have kicked in. He didn't seem to have any trouble getting in. I'll check on him in a bit."

Bobby nodded, turning the burner off and shifting the perfectly scrambled eggs onto plates, "So …"

Dean paused, eyebrow raised, "So?"

Bobby sighed in exasperation. "So what the hell happened? You gonna gimme details or do I have to dream something up?" He moved the three plates to the table.

Dean followed, shrugging. "He called me."

"Yeah? And?"

Dean sat down, "And nothing. He called me. Told me where he was, and said to come get him."

Bobby nodded. "So … no Ruby?"

"I don't think so. I mean, he hasn't mentioned her. He's been off the demon blood for a year, Bobby. A year!"

"You ever think to ask?"

"About that black-haired bitch? Not yet."

"And why is that?" Bobby took a bite of bacon.

"Geez Bobby. We just got him back. Can we just … just take a minute to celebrate or drink a beer or something?"

Bobby held up two hands in surrender, "Just askin'. Don't get your boxers in a bunch."

"Hey." Sam said, shuffling slowly into the kitchen. "Any of that for me?" He pulled the robe tighter around himself and sat gingerly down next to Dean.

"That my bathrobe?" Bobby asked, casting an annoyed look at the older Winchester, noting the smirk on his face.

Sam looked embarrassed. "I think it is, Bobby. Sorry." He rose to leave the table.

"Sit down, ya idjit." The old hunter relented. "I don't care if you wear it. Just don't go lendin' it to Dean."

"Hey!" The older boy cried indignantly as his brother smiled.

"Wouldn't dare." Sam grinned, casting a sideways glance at his brother.

"Just eat, Anorexia." Dean joked, tapping his brother's plate with his fork. "Scrambled. Your favorite."

Sam smiled. "They are." He looked up at Bobby, chagrined. "You remembered."

"I guess I can remember how the kid I all but raised likes his eggs. I ain't senile yet, you know." Bobby looked down at his plate, pleased at the call out, but refusing to show it.

"Here. Bacon." Dean said, his mouth full. He dropped three slices onto his brother's plate.

"Gross, Dean."

"What?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full, dude. It looks like a train wreck."

"Train wreck this, little brother." Dean replied, opening his mouth wide.

Sam looked, grimacing "Are you 12?"

Dean grinned, chugging down a huge drink of beer.

Sam shivered. "Beer and eggs."

"Damned right, beer and eggs - a timeless duo."

"A recipe for pukin', you mean." Bobby cut in. "I ain't cleaning that up, boy. So make sure you got good aim."

Sam snorted, then winced, his breath catching.

Dean froze, his beer midway to the table. "Sam? You okay?"

Sam nodded. He picked up his fork and began eating the eggs. And the more he ate, the faster he ate, until he was shoveling food into his mouth at record speed. Eggs, bacon, toast, milk, repeat.

Bobby and Dean exchanged glances but neither spoke as Sam proceeded to eat like he hadn't tasted food in the whole year he'd been gone. When his plate was near empty, and he hadn't begun to slow down, Bobby rose and left the table. He returned with a supermarket container of over-sized chocolate-chip muffins, the kind with the sugar crystals crusted over the top.

"Forgot to set out the muffins." Bobby said simply, placing the four-pack next to Sam whose eyes lit up like Christmas. Then the older man refilled Sam's milk glass and set the gallon jug down on the table.

"Thanks Bobby," Sam said around a mouthful of toast. He reached for a muffin and pulled the entire top off, popping it into his mouth in one move. He followed it up with a large drink of milk. "So good." He murmured. He reached for another and plopped it happily on Dean's plate, grinning at his older brother through lips covered in crumbs. "You gotta try it. It's amazing." He downed the rest of the glass and reached for the jug, letting out an echoing belch.

Dean snickered. "We'll just call you Grace."

Sam shook his head. "Don't care. Just … this is so good." He finished off the muffin and sat back, trying not to look longingly at the two that were left in the packaging.

"I ain't one for muffins, boy." Bobby said, reading his mind. "Those're for you two."

Sam's eyes lit up a second time as he reached for another muffin. "Thanks Bobby."

"Go easy there, Gigantor, or you'll be re-tasting it all an hour from now."

Sam grinned, shaking his head. He froze as a sudden thought occurred to him. "Bobby! Can I make coffee?" He started to rise. "Gosh, I need coffee in the worst way."

"Sit still, Sam. I got it." Bobby rose, taking his plate to the kitchen. He turned to Dean. "I suppose you want coffee too?"

Dean spread his arms."Come on, Bobby. Have you met me?" He asked. "Of course I want coffee."

The two boys shared a secret smile as Bobby sighed for show without really meaning it and headed off toward the kitchen. Sam continued to eat at an alarming rate, and Dean sat watching him, reveling in the fact that his baby brother had come home and was going to be all right. This same time yesterday, he'd been planning how best to kill the kid who was the other half of his heart, and today he sat beside him at Bobby's table, watching him hog all the muffins like he was 10 again.

It was almost too much, and Dean was afraid he was going to have to leave the table or break down like a baby when suddenly Sam saved him from his revery.

"You haven't asked me about Ruby."

Dean started, looking up. "No."

"How come?"

Dean hesitated, then shrugged. "You'll tell us when you're ready."

Sam nodded, belched again, and sat back. He stared at the table. "She's … uh … she's dead."

Dean nodded. "How? Did you …?"

Sam nodded. "In the church. After I br-broke the last seal. She was laughing at me. She played me, just like you said. Then she said … she said ... "

"What? She said what, Sam?"

Sam cleared his throat, "She said she'd played me just like she was going to play you. Said you were next. That they were coming for you next, and that was it … that … I just … I lost it." Sam stared at the table, eyes watery. He looked up at Dean. "I had the demon blade on me. I just … I kept it just in case. And I … I used it … on her. I just wanted her to shut up. She wouldn't shut up."

Dean nodded. "It had to be done, Sam."

Sam leaned in, tears falling down his face, "I did stuff, Dean. To get enough power. I … there was this girl. She was possessed by a demon, but … but she came back into herself before we … before I … was done." He gagged, jumping up and rushing to the bathroom, and Dean could hear the sounds of retching from a room away.

Bobby stepped inside the room and cocked an ear. "That my breakfast going down the drain?"

Dean nodded, sadly. "I got it, Bobby." He said, rising and heading for the downstairs bath.


	9. Please Don't Lie to Me

"What's goin' on, Sam? This why you look like a scarecrow on a diet?" Dean asked, tugging the warm throw over his brother. Bobby's bed was downstairs and easier for Sam to reach, so that's where they'd put him.

Sam nodded, his head back and one arm tossed over his eyes. "I can't stop thinking about her, Dean."

Dean swallowed hard. "But you said she was a demon?"

"She was possessed by a demon. Just possessed. I … I could have saved her. Could have used … you know … my powers."

Dean was silent, thinking, then spoke quietly, "You remember Meg, right?"

Sam snorted, "The one who possessed me and almost made me kill you and Jo? Yeah, Dean, I remember."

"Well, remember when we exorcised her the first time around? The blond chick she left behind? That girl was as good as dead, Sam. I mean, her body was toast. Possession was the only thing keeping her vertical, right? You know how demons leave their live hosts. They leave 'em dead or wishing they were."

"But we don't know that for sure."

"Sure we do. That girl you … you drank? She was worse than dead already. You just stopped another demon from walking the Earth is all."

Sam froze, muscles tense. He dropped his arm and blinked at his brother. "Why did you say it like that?"

"Like what?"

"That I … that I … drank her? How'd you know?"

Dean backpedaled, calm on the outside. "Lucky guess, Sam. I mean, the demon blood and all."

"Oh."

"Point is, you gotta come to terms with what happened and stop letting it get in the way of living. You're gonna kill yourself, Sammy. You gotta eat, you know?"

"I know. I just … can't. I still see her, Dean. Toward … toward the end … the demon was pissed at me, you know? It retreated and left the nurse … she was a nurse, Dean. She … she didn't know what was going on. I had her … had her pinned to a table when she woke up. She begged me. She pleaded with me not to hurt her. Said she had a husband." Sam gagged again, and Dean made a grab for Bobby's wastebasket.

"Sammy …" Dean lamented in empathy as Sam dry-wretched into the basket. "You gotta let it go, man."

"I'm a monster, Dean. You should just …"

"Shut it, Sam."

"I'm sorry." Sam mourned, dropping his hand to his side and hissing in pain.

"What's wrong?"

"Pain's coming back."

"It's too soon for more painkillers."

"I know." Sam sighed. "It's okay."

Dean was silent, pissed beyond words at what that demon bitch had done to his little brother. "It's not okay, Sam. It's pretty damned far from okay." He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "If you're layin' there thinkin' you deserve this, you're wrong." He stood suddenly and launched a kick into the drywall. "I wish I had that bitch right here, right now. The things I'd do …"

"Dean."

"What?"

"Bobby's gonna kick your ass."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, I guess he might."

"Dean?"

"What, Sam?"

"Why were you already in Tucson when I called you?"

Dean clenched his fists at his side to keep the trembling at bay. He stalled for time. "Didn't we have this conversation already?"

"Why were you already there? It was because of me, wasn't it. You were … you were there 'cause you were … were hunting me."

Dean rolled his eyes, feigning disbelief. "Right, Sam. I went to Tucson to hunt my baby brother."

"Turn around."

"What?"

"Turn around. Face me."

Dean sighed, steeling himself, and turned. "I could never hurt you, Sam. You have to know that." He worked to keep his face neutral.

Sam studied him. "You know, it's okay if you were. It's like I said, Dean. I'm a monster. Done monstrous things." He shifted, trying to alleviate a sudden cramp in his abdomen.

"You're not a monster. You're my brother and nothing you could ever do could ever change that."

"Monstrous things, Dean. She had a family. Who knows, maybe she had …" Sam's voice hitched, "had kids."

Dean shook his head. "She didn't."

Sam's brow furrowed, "How do you know?"

"I just do. If she had, she'd have mentioned them."

Sam looked down, ashamed, "I'm just sayin', if you did come to Tucson to h-hunt me, I understand. I won't hold it against you. I won't be mad, Dean. Just … don't lie to me, please." Sam turned his full puppy-eyed stare on his brother.

And Dean almost caved. Almost spilled the beans right there, but he just couldn't. Sam was hurting so badly right now, in every way it was possible to hurt. He couldn't add to it by telling his kid brother that he'd lost such complete faith in him that he was planning to do exactly what Sam now accused him of. He tried to look as sincere as possible. "I didn't, Sam. I swear. I wasn't in Arizona looking for you. I was just following demon signs." That wasn't too far from the truth.

Sam suddenly looked so relieved that Dean wanted to cry. "Thank God." He breathed, smiling through unshed tears. "All those months, Dean, all I could think about was getting back to you." He suddenly laughed mirthlessly. "Really. It was the ONLY thing that kept from diving in front of a car, man. If you'd lost faith in me … well."

"What?" Dean asked, contrite.

"I dunno, I just wouldn't have been able to stand it, I think. I mean, you've always been there for me, Dean. Through every shit thing I've ever done, every horrible decision I ever made. Even when I … I beat the crap out of you and left you layin' there on the floor of that hotel … you still never lost faith." Sam looked up with a watery smile. "Thanks, man."

Dean died a little inside at that smile. Sam's words were like knives gutting his soul. He HAD lost faith. He HAD given Sam up for gone.

He had.

He'd done everything that Sam had just thanked him for not doing.

He was such a shit.

But he could never admit it - not to Sam.

Instead he turned away, swiping at his eyes, "S'okay Sammy. You'd have done the same. You know you would have."

And Dean knew it too. Sam would have stayed the faith. He'd have never given up on Dean like Dean had given up on him. Sam would never have entertained the thought of hunting his brother. Never. He'd have searched for him and found him and tried to drag him home.

Just like Dean should have done. Just like Sam thought Dean had done.

"I … uh … I gotta go see if Bobby needs any help. You still want that coffee?"

Sam smiled again, "YES! Please. You have no idea how badly I still want that coffee."

Dean snickered, "Comin' right up, Samantha, you big girl."


	10. Spell Breaker

Sam gritted his teeth against a wave of pain that shot from his knees up through his spine. He tried hard to think of something else.

There was something Dean wasn't telling him. He could sense it, but he was too afraid to dig deeper. Sam had a feeling he wouldn't like the answer.

All those long months, as the pain had gotten worse and worse, and the memories had grown more and more vivid, the only thing that had kept him sane was the thought that maybe his big brother was still out there somewhere, looking for him, not giving up.

If he ever thought that Dean really had turned on him and meant it … well.

Sam was pretty sure that'd be the end for him. There'd be nothing left for him to live for. Sure, Bobby cared about him, but not like Dean. There was no one anywhere who'd always been there for Sam like his big brother had been. As far back as Sam had memory, Dean had been there, picking him up and dusting him off and figuring things out.

There was no problem too big and no obstacle too insurmountable once Dean decided to remove it.

And Sam really needed that in his life, especially now. He needed to know that somebody, somewhere still believed in him and still thought he was worth saving.

Because Sam sure couldn't find that in himself anymore.

And he needed someone to search for a cure for this pain because it was quickly becoming too big and too consuming to deal with, and his teeth clenched as he tossed back his head in agony and let out a muffled roar. The tremor started in the heels of his feet and traveled upward, making his whole core quake and causing joints to clack together all over his body.

And that's when he started to scream.

#####

"Sweet Mother of Mercy, how long can this go on?" Bobby shouted, frantic. The book of lore that was open in front of him giving him no satisfaction. He turned a grim face to Dean and shook his head. "He can't survive pain like that for long, Dean! We got to find the cure!"

"You think I don't know that?" Dean growled, frantically flipping pages. From the bedroom Sam screamed again, and Dean's resolve all but broke. He stopped in his desperate perusal of the book and hung his head. "He's … he's hurting, Bobby. He's hurting so bad, and I can't …" his voice hitched. "I can't do anything to stop it!"

Bobby clapped a strong hand on the younger boy's shoulder, "We'll find it, Dean. I'll keep looking. You go - take him some more pain meds."

Dean looked up, eyes wet. "Is it time?"

"Does it matter? Boy ain't gonna survive much longer if we don't do something."

Dean nodded, swiping the pills from the desk and shooting into the bedroom. He took one look at Sam and swore. The kid was curled up on the bed in a fetal position, drenched in sweat, face hidden in his armpit.

"Sammy. Here. More pills." Dean sat gently down on the edge of the bed and reached for the water bottle on the nightstand. He shook out three pills and held them in the flat of his hand. "Come on, Sammy. Open up for me. It'll help."

Sam just shook his head wordlessly, his face still hidden.

Dean reached down and brushed sweat-streaked hair back. "Come on kiddo. I need you to take these for me, okay?"

But Sam's body suddenly went taut. His legs shot out straight, and his body pulled back like a bow.

"Gggnh … D-Dean!"

"Sammy! I'm here. It's gonna be okay. I'm right here. Just ride it out, okay?"

"Help … m-me! M-make it s-stop! Please, Dean!"

Dean's hands shook as he measured out two of the muscle relaxers and fought to get them onto Sam's tongue. "Swallow for me, Sammy. Just try to swallow, okay?" He grasped his brother's chin and tipped the water bottle back. "Good job, Sammy. Those'll kick in shortly. Just ride it out brother."

Sam tried to nod, but couldn't get his muscles to cooperate. He sobbed. "I'm d-dying Dean. I'm s-sorry f-for everything."

"Stop it, Sam. You're not dying. Come on, it's just withdrawal man. You can handle it. You've been handling it for months all alone. Bobby and I are here now. We're gonna find the cure, okay? You just … you gotta hang on for me. None of that sayin' goodbye shit." Dean crouched on his knees on the bed beside his brother, his hands on Sam's shoulders to try and stop the quaking.

Sam's teeth began to chatter and he jerked away. A long, piercing wail escaped him as he fought against the pain. Then, as suddenly as it started, Sam went slack.

"Sammy!" Dean cried, leaning over him. He grabbed the younger boy's chin and turned his wrecked face to look into his eyes. "Sammy! Come on, man. Come back to me."

Sam stared up at him, blinking.

"Sam, what's going on? Tell me."

Sam's eyes wandered around the room. "I - I think …"

"What? What's happening?"

Sam's eyes found Dean's. "It's … gone."

"What?"

"The pain."

"What? All of it?"

Sam's let out an hysterical giggle. "Yeah."

Dean's first thought was paralysis. "Can you move everything?"

Sam tried. He wiggled his toes, then his fingers. He flexed the muscles in his neck. "Yeah. I think so."

Dean stared, a smile starting. "It's just … gone?"

The door burst open and Bobby exploded through. "Is he okay?"

"Yeah. He says the pain's gone."

Bobby expelled a relieved breath and stood grinning like the cheshire cat.

Dean knew that look. "Bobby? What'd you do?"

Bobby grinned down at them. "Wasn't withdrawal from the demon blood. It was a damned spell."

"What?" They asked in unison.

"A spell, Sam! A spell! She put it on you when you took your first drink of demon blood, and as long as you were feeding regularly, it stayed dormant inside you. But it needs the blood, otherwise it activates and just gets worse and worse until it eventually either kills you or makes you wish you were dead!"

"So that black-haired bitch did this to him?"

"How do you know?" Sam asked softly, his voice wrecked.

Bobby held up the ancient book he was grasping in his left hand. "Found it in Colt's journal, of all places."

Dean gaped, "Colt? As in Samuel Colt? How did you get that?"

Bobby's eyes flashed, "I got ways, boy."

"So … how did you t-take it off?" Sam sighed.

Bobby shrugged, "A little liquid silver, hair of a rat and some of that DNA you left all over my sink in the bathroom, kiddo" The old hunter grinned. "Had everything I needed right in the house. Well, that and an incantation or two."

Dean grimaced, "You keep rat hairs in the house? That's gross, Bobby."

"Shut it, ya idjit. It's a good thing I do, too, I'd say." His eyes fell on Sam. "So it really worked, kid? Pain's really gone?"

Sam moved his arms and legs tentatively. He took a deep breath and expelled it, turning grateful eyes to the old hunter. "It's gone, Bobby. It really is." He looked at Dean, grinning. "For the first time since I can't even remember, nothing hurts, Dean!"

A slow smile spread across Dean's face before morphing into a stupid grin. "Thank God. I thought I was gonna have to knock you out there, Sammy."

Sam snorted, "That's funny, Dean. Ha ha."

The three hunters exchanged glances, unsure of what to do next, but Sam suddenly decided for them when he flopped unceremoniously over onto his stomach and muttered into the pillow. "Don't wake me up before spring." He sighed, contented. "I can't remember the last time I slept either."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, go on, Samantha. You just have a nice nap there. I'll go clean up the mess you left us in the bathroom."

Sam's muttered response was lost in his pillow, but Dean got the gist of it from Sam's raised middle finger. The older boy grinned and stood up. "Yeah, I love you too, Sam." He said, sarcastically, moving silently to join Bobby at the door and closing it quietly behind them.

The two hunters stood together outside Bobby's bedroom, and shared a relieved look, both grinning like madmen.

"Holy shit, I need a beer." Dean quipped.

"I need a damned trauma unit." Bobby answered. "But a beer'll work, I guess."


	11. It All Comes Down to This

Dean and Bobby were talked quietly, nursing cooling coffee at the table, when Sam stumbled in.

"Got any more of that?" The taller boy questioned, shuffling over to the coffee pot.

"Got a fresh pot brewing right now. How do you feel?" Bobby asked, studying him.

Sam smiled, yawning. "Feel good. Damned good. Thanks to you." He wandered over and sat down, robe trailing in his wake. He smiled at Dean. "We're so gettin' bathrobes, dude. I could seriously live in this thing."

Dean snorted. "I ain't exactly the bathrobe type, Sammy, in case you haven't noticed."

"Trust me on this, Dean. You need one of these." Sam yawned again, stretching like a lazy cat. He finished and sat smiling at the two men who made up his entire family.

Silence engulfed them for a moment as they all reveled in the fact that Sam was cured. Then Bobby broke it. "You're hungry, ain't ya." He said it as a statement and not a question.

"Yes!" Sam blurted immediately, then blushed. "I mean, yeah, but I can grab a sandwich or something, Bobby. Stay put." Sam made to rise.

But the older hunter had beaten him to the draw.

"Sit still, ya idjit. I got some leftovers around here someplace. I'll heat 'em up." He said gruffly, his hand falling comfortingly on Sam's shoulder as he passed.

Sam smiled at Dean, reaching up and patting his uncle's hand. "Thanks Bobby. I owe you one."

"Owe me more than one, kid." Bobby grumbled, walking away, and both boys snickered.

"So …" Dean started, taking a sip of coffee.

"So?"

"So, what's on the agenda for today, little brother? I mean, you only been sleepin' for …" He glanced at his watch, "oh, about sixteen hours."

Sam grinned, "Best sleep I ever had, Dean. Woke up feeling like myself again. Nothing hurts."

Dean nodded. "Good."

Sam's eyes lit up as a huge mug of coffee found its way into his hand. He took a taste. It was light brown and sweet, just the way he loved it. He savored the taste, suddenly thinking back to the last time someone had served him coffee at a table. He frowned, reliving the boys with the sugar packet and the waitress who'd snubbed him.

Dean sensed the change in mood, his head tilting. "Sammy? You okay?"

Sam looked up, shooting his brother a sad smile. "Yeah. I'm good."

Dean studied him. "Liar."

Sam shrugged, "I was just thinking about how it was … you know … before."

"How was it?"

Sam shuddered. "Well, it wasn't like this." He shared, as Bobby set a plate filled with fried chicken breast, macaroni salad and green beans in front of him. His eyes went huge at the sight, and he all but drooled.

"So … how was it?" Dean repeated, refusing to let his brother off the hook.

Sam took a bite of the salad, "Just, you know. They always thought I was a junkie." He chewed slowly, savoring the taste of home. "Bobby, this is so good."

"Who?"

"Everyone. They treat you different."

"Different how? Hey Bobby, you got anymore of that?" Dean struggled to look around his brother.

Bobby sighed exaggeratedly as he set a second heaping plate in front of Dean. "Like I didn't think you'd be hungry too." He growled.

Dean's eyes widened at the sight of the ridiculously heaped twin to his brother's plate. The boys' eyes met, and they grinned.

But Dean was persistent. "Different how?"

"I don't know, like … like the waitress wouldn't refill my cup. She did everyone else, but ignored me."

Dean's eyes sparked, but he just nodded, keeping silent.

"And the kids in the next booth, they put stuff in my cup."

Dean frowned, "While you were drinkin' it?"

Sam nodded.

"What kind of stuff?"

Sam sighed, "You really don't want to hear this, Dean."

"Yeah, Sam. I do."

"Trash, okay? They dropped their trash in my coffee, and I fished it out and drank it anyway. I had to. It was all the money I had."

Bobby froze in the doorway, hearing that last bit, and locked eyes with Dean. The older boy's face was a study in fury, but he held himself in check.

"Kids? Like little kids?"

"Kid's like teenagers. They called me a junkie, asked me if …"

"Yeah?"

"Nothing, Dean. Can we just eat?"

"No, finish what you were saying. What'd they ask you?"

Sam sighed, sitting back and nailing his brother with a hard stare. "They asked me if the junkie was gonna cry. Then they tossed their shit in my cup and said that now I had something to cry about. Is that what you wanted to hear, Dean?"

Sam dropped his fork with a clatter and rose, taking his coffee. He stalked away into the other room.

"Sam!" Dean called after him, penitent. "Come back and eat!"

But both men heard the screen door slam.

Bobby sat down across from Dean, and took a sip of coffee. "Guess he didn't wanna share that." He glanced woefully at Sam's still-full plate. "If I have to heat that up one more time."

Dean snorted then. "Give him a minute to cool off. He'll be back."

The two sat in comfortable silence, listening to the creak of front porch swing as Sam gathered his thoughts. The sound of car tires crunching over gravel made Dean look up.

"We expectin' company?"

Bobby shrugged. "There was a guy called for you earlier while you were in the shower. Least, I think he was talking about you. Asked for Dean Singer."

And suddenly Dean couldn't breathe.


	12. He's My Brother

Ford Merrill pulled up just behind the black Impala and swore. Singer's car - he'd recognized it right away. The Winchester kid had to have stolen it, which meant Dean Singer was likely dead. Fear suddenly welled up in the old man's chest, and he considered turning right around and driving himself out of here before it was too late. But then he thought about Lillie. She'd been the pride of his life - first grandkid, first grandkid to go to college, first nurse in the family.

He sat still, his eyes drawn to the scrapbook that rested on the seat beside him. He leafed through and found the photo he was looking for. It showed Lillie at her college graduation, grinning a million-watt smile in her cap and gown while being hugged by her little brother. Very well then. He'd come this far, suspecting that Singer was dead. He'd had a feeling that the Winchester kid had come out the winner is this battle. That's why he had never gotten an update. Harboring guilt for feeling like he'd sent the Singer boy to his death, the old man sighed heavily. He opened the door and stepped out, photo in hand.

And then he froze.

Sam Winchester reclined in a swing right on the front porch. He wore pajamas pants and a tee shirt, and a robe lay discarded next to him. He sipped on a mug of coffee. The two locked eyes.

And Winchester smiled.

And it was the cocky smile that re-ignited the hatred down deep inside Merrill's gut. He reached back slowly and felt for the demon knife that he wore on a holster around his waist. Assured that it was there and ready, he made his approach.

###

Sam didn't recognize the older man who approached the steps, but he smiled at him kindly, assuming he must be a friend of Bobby's. The death stare he'd received in return had thrown him, and Sam toyed with the idea of getting up and going inside, but the man he assumed was a hunter was already halfway up the steps, and turning his back and walking away now seemed rude.

Sam nodded as the man reached the top of the steps. When the man didn't respond, Sam gestured to the door. "If you're looking for Bobby …" He started, but the man cut him off.

"I'm looking for Dean Singer, actually. You haven't seen him around by chance?" the man's flat voice sounded oddly devoid of emotion.

Sam frowned, deciding that ignorance was the better part of valor in this situation. "Don't know any Dean Singer." He replied, wondering if this guy was here to cause trouble for his brother. Sam silently cursed the fact that he was weaponless.

"Really? Cause That'd be his car parked out front big as you please."

"What do you want?" Sam asked, all pretense of politeness gone. Something was off about the guy.

"I wanna know how you killed him. Did you drink him like you did my Lillie?"

Sam shot to his feet, his cup crashing to the porch. "W-what? What did you just say?"

"That Singer kid, I didn't mean to send him to his death, but that's what happened, ain't it? You bleed him too? Bleed him and steal his car?"

Sam's face went pale, and he backed up away from the angry man with the long, gray hair. "I … I …"

"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Or maybe it's a demon has it, right? That pretty little girl with the black hair? I know what she is." The man advanced. "And I know what you are too. I told him. I told Singer you were a demon. She was a demon. But he underestimated you, didn't he? Seemed like a cocky little son of a bitch. But that don't mean he deserved to die."

"I … I didn't kill …" Sam stammered, plastering himself against the wall of the house, as far from the advancing man as possible.

The man smiled, mirthlessly. He squinted at Sam. "Oh yes you did. You killed Dean just like you killed Lillie. She was my granddaughter, you know. Whole family's pride and joy, Lillie." He looked down at the picture in his hand and then looked back at Sam. "Take a long look at what you did, you evil son of a bitch." He held the photo up for Sam to see.

Sam glanced at it, turned impossibly whiter, then looked away. He slid down the wall, arms limp at his sides. He swallowed, trying to make his voice work.

"Go on. Look. LOOK AT HER, YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

"That's enough!" Dean rocketed out the door and placed himself between Sam and the girl's grandfather.

Merrill stopped, surprised. "You're alive." He took a step back. "Why are you alive?"

Dean tried to think of an appropriate response, but none was forthcoming.

Merrill's eyes narrowed, "How can you be here? In the same house? With him?"

Bobby slipped out the door and made his way along the porch behind Dean to Sam. He reached the younger boy and knelt down beside him.

"Who's that? What's … what's he doing?" Merrill demanded. "Why is he … He's comforting that … that … THING."

"That's enough." Dean repeated. "Look, you should just go."

Merrill looked from Dean to Sam and back to Dean again. "You said you'd hunt him."

From the corner of the porch, Dean heard a surprised intake of breath.

"You said ... you said you'd find him. You'd take care of him. Did you just blow smoke up my ass?" Merrill demanded, tearfully.

"Look, you need to leave. Now." Dean said, stepping forward in what he hoped was a threatening way.

But Merrill wasn't cowed. He just stood looking at Dean as though he'd just been betrayed by his best friend. "Why are you here … with him? You owe me an explanation. I waited. I've been waiting for months! For months! For word he was dead. I thought he'd killed you!"

"Listen, I'm sorry, okay. Things weren't … they weren't what we thought they were."

"How were they? Did he kill Lillie or not? Are you saying he's innocent?"

"No." Sam spoke up quietly from the corner. "I did it. I … your daughter … I … Lillie ..."

"Shut up! You don't get to say her name! You hear me? You don't get to do that! And she was my granddaughter, but then you'd know that if you had a damned soul!"

Sam looked at the irate man through the tears that ran unchecked down his face. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know it can never be enough. It can never bring her back …"

"Sorry? You're sorry? That's supposed to what? To make me feel better? 'Oh, the guy who gutted my Lillie and guzzled her blood, he's SORRY! Well that's alright then. Let's invite that fucker over for a barbecue!'"

"Please," Bobby spoke up. "You've said your piece. Just let the boy alone now. He has to live with this for the rest of his life."

Merrill was set to go off again, when Dean spoke up. "You don't know him, Mr. Merrill. Not like I do. Sam would never hurt anyone when he was in his right mind."

Merrill's eyes fastened disbelievingly on Dean. "You know him? You know him?"

Dean nodded, "Sam's my brother."

"Your b…?" Merrill stepped back, shaken to his core. "Your brother."

"My brother."

"But you were intent on killing him. I know it. I saw it in your eyes."

Another whimper from the corner and Dean's eyes closed, then opened again.

Dean shook his head, sadly. "Another time. Another place. Maybe I thought I could, but I can't. And I wouldn't."

Merrill stood looking, from one to the other of them, then his face turned hard. He zeroed in on Sam. "You keep this. You look at it every day because every day I have to look at an empty room where she used to sleep. You study it real good, cause when you finally die the evil, filth-ridden death you deserve, it's this angelic face that's gonna drive you straight to hell." He placed the photo on the porch swing and turned on Dean. "And fuck you! Fuck all of you!" he screamed, his voice thick with tears.

He trod back down the steps and slipped behind the wheel of his decrepit truck, backed out and drove away. In his rear view, Merrill could see the Singer kid watching him sadly.


	13. Good Try, Sammy

"So ... coffee?" Dean asked, handing Sam a steaming mug of sweet, creamy beverage. It had been a week since the old man's visit, and things between him and his brother were … were just … not right. Sam was distant. Sad. He still smiled at Dean in all the right places, but things had changed between them, and Sam wouldn't allow him to make things right.

"Thanks." Sam smiled vacantly, taking the mug and turning his attention immediately back to the dusty book that sat open in his lap.

"Sam …"

"What, Dean." Sam asked without looking up.

"Can we … can we just … you know … talk about it?"

Sam stood up instantly, heading for the door. "No need to talk about anything. Care if I take the car to town? Need to visit the library."

Dean shook his head, "No, go ahead. I could …" Dean hesitated, unsure. "I could … um … come with ... if you want? Might go faster with two heads researchin' instead of one."

Sam shuffled his feet, looking everywhere but at Dean. "Maybe next time. I … uh … I just … you know."

Dean backpedaled. "Oh. Yeah, sure, Sammy. Whatever you want. You need help, let me know, okay?"

"Yep." Sam grabbed his keychain off the peg next to the door and slipped outside. A moment later, Dean heard the Impala roar to life and creep down the driveway. He moved to the window and watched his brother drive away.

"He still bein' all emo?" Bobby asked from the kitchen doorway, tea towel in hand.

Dean sighed. "I fucked up, Bobby. I shouldn't have lied to him. Shoulda' just come clean from the start."

Bobby moved closer, placing a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder. "Too late for hindsight, Dean. Sam'll come around. Just give him some time."

"He thinks I betrayed him, and he's right. I did."

"Dean …"

"I was ready to kill him, Bobby. I was. You heard me. I was huntin' him. I was huntin' my brother. Sam never woulda' done that to me."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do. Sammy's too soft-hearted. He'd just try to drag me home, even if he had to cuff me to do it." Dean sank down onto the rustic couch where Sam had been sleeping the last week. "I ruined things between us. He'll never trust me again."

He looked up at the older hunter with tears in his eyes. "What have I done, Bobby?"

Bobby shook his head. These two would be the death of him someday, he just knew it. "Just give him time and space, Dean - time and space. That's all you can do."

Dean leaned back, then sat back up, frowning. He reached behind him and came up with Sam's phone, buried and forgotten between the cushions. "Hunh. He must really be pissed at me. Kid never forgets his phone." He glanced at it briefly, noting the saved message that blinked at him accusingly from his own number. He met Bobby's eyes and grinned.

"Dean. Don't."

"What? Just a little blackmail material. Kid's been saving a message from me for …" Dean brought up the message and looked at the date. "Over a year! Damn! I'm flattered." he snickered as he hit play and put the phone on speaker.

" _Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak. Dad always said I'd either have to save you or kill you. Well, I'm giving you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam, a vampire. You're not you anymore, and there's no going back …"_

Bobby sucked in a shocked breath as the phone fell from Dean's lifeless fingers.

"Damn, Dean! Just tell the kid how you really feel about him!"

Dean's shocked eyes met Bobby's. "Bobby! I'd never! That wasn't … I never left that message! I mean, that was my voice, but I never …"

"That sure sounded like you, Dean."

Dean stared, his face bloodless. "All this time … Sam's thought … he thought I'd given up on him."

"If you didn't leave it … then who did?"

Dean checked the date again, and tried to think back. That was the night after Sam had left him broken and bleeding in that hotel. The night after he'd come home to Bobby and spouted off about how he was done with Sam. It had been Bobby who'd talked sense into him - enough so that he'd called Sam the next night and apologized.

"Ruby."

"But how?"

"I don't know, but somehow she altered the message. Bobby, I called him that night. I apologized. Remember? That was the night after Sam and I'd had that big fight and you had to give me verbal slapdown to get me to see how pigheaded I was bein'? I called him and it went to voicemail. I apologized and it cut me off. I'd never …" He stared at Bobby, chilled clean through, "Bobby, I'd never say something like that to Sam. No matter how mad I was. I could never hurt him like that."

####

Sam looked around the tiny apartment and grimaced. It was small - just a studio - and in the rough part of town, but it would do. He smiled at the landlady and took the clipboard, signing the one-year lease. He handed over $1,200, and suddenly, he was a tenant. He moved to the small window that looked out over Sioux Falls and the pawn shop that he'd visited just this morning. The ring he'd bought for Jess had fetched him two grand, more than enough for a do-over, and Sam was glad he'd held onto it for as long as he had. The remaining $800 would get him through his first month until he found a job, and then in a year - he could move on - far away from this town and far away from … from any ties he had left to it. He'd paid the kid at the garage $100 to drive the Impala back out to the salvage yard. He had no intention of ever setting foot there again. His phone, his clothes - he didn't need nor want them. All he needed was a fresh start and some distance from his brother to get his life back in order. Someday, he'd be able to pay them back - Dean and Bobby - for saving his life - even though Sam was convinced, now more than ever, that it didn't warrant saving. He pulled out the photo of Lillie and smoothed the wrinkles out. Dean had balled it up immediately and tossed it in the kitchen trashcan, but Sam had retrieved it before he took the trash out. He carried it with him now - everywhere. He made himself look at the photo just like he'd made himself listen to Dean's frigid voice on the phone over and over again.

It was a sort of penance - a reminder that the life he had was far better than the one he deserved. Sam stuck the photo on the fridge, held in place by a single alphabet magnet left behind by the former tenant.

Sam glanced around him. The place came unfurnished, with just a stove and a fridge to keep him company. But that's all he'd need in the beginning. He sighed, and headed down the two flights of stairs. He'd need cleaning supplies and groceries.

First things first.

###

Dean was waiting on the porch, holding his brother's phone and determined to make things right with Sam, when the Impala roared up. He headed down the steps and stopped, stunned. He frowned when some … some teenager … stepped out of his baby.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean asked, looking inside for Sam.

"Uh, the guy … he paid me $100 to bring the car back. Said someone would give me a ride back to town?" The kid handed Dean the keys that still held Sam's spare key for Bobby's front door.

Dean's eyes went wide. "Where is he?"

"Uh, bus stop, I think."

Dean's eyes pinned the kid. "Where was he headed?"

"I … uh … I don't know?"

Dean swore.

"Uh, I gotta get back. My mom's holding dinner."

###

Sam hovered over the lettuce. Romaine or iceberg - that was the question. He had just picked up the romaine when he heard the rumble of the Impala shudder past the store. He ducked back behind an endcap until it passed and tried not to think about how, just a week ago, he'd wanted nothing more than to be with his brother and how now he needed so desperately to have some space from him.

Dean hated him, was disgusted by him.

Dean had always been all about helping people like Lillie's grandfather.

Sam ... Sam was just a monster.

Finding out how Dean really felt about him - that was probably the worst moment of Sam's life. Dean had given up on him, really and truly given up, had accepted a contract to kill him even.

And then he'd lied about it.

Sam felt so foolish, so lied to, so talked down to, so betrayed. He once again felt like the stupid, clueless little brother. Dean hadn't made him feel that way in years - had rarely ever made him feel that way - in fact. Dean had always made Sam feel cherished, even as kids. He'd made sure Sam was accepted by his own friends and that he knew how much Dean liked having him trail around after his big, older brother.

But those days ... those days were over.

Sam swiped at his face, tossing the stupid lettuce into the cart and heading for the beer freezer he'd passed on the way in. He liked this store already.

###

Dean dropped the kid at his house then beat it to the bus station, hoping to find Sam before he caught the last bus out of town, but he was too late. The last bus of the night had pulled out 20 minutes earlier, headed for Kennebec. If Sam was on it, he was heading west.

Stanford maybe.

Sam probably still had friends there, though it'd been years since he'd been back. But when Dean asked around, flashing that picture he still carried of Sam from a few years back, no one recognized him.

And Dean knew a red herring when he saw one. He grinned.

"Good try, Sammy, you sly dog. But you're still in town, you little bitch." Dean sat in his car, thinking.

Beer.

It was the Winchester cure-all after all. Good for hurt bodies and hurt feelings, and Sam had had plenty of both lately. Dean pulled out his phone and searched up every bar in the vicinity of where the kid said he'd run into Sam. He found three.


	14. I Can't Just Turn It Off

It was the man at the pawn shop who gave Dean his first solid lead. He'd flashed the photo of Sam, and the man had immediately pointed to the ring. Dean's jaw dropped when he saw it, when he heard what it was worth.

Then he thought about his brother - all those years and still carrying around the engagement ring meant for his dead girlfriend - and his stomach churned.

"He didn't happen to say why he needed the money?" Dean gambled.

"First and last month's rent and security deposit."

Dean's eyes grew large, "He give an address?"

The man dug for his registry, flipping back to the day Sam had made his transaction. "39 South McKellen." The man looked up at Dean over his bifocals. "That's downtown. Shitty area, but damned cheap."

Dean nodded, "How long ago?"

The man double-checked the date on the registry. "Two weeks tomorrow."

"Thanks." Dean replied curtly and slipped out the door. Weeks of searching Sioux Falls for his brother had finally paid off, and Dean had a nibble.

It was about damned time.

He climbed back into the Impala and headed for McKellen Street.

###

Sam climbed the two flights of stairs to his apartment and let himself inside. He'd dug the trench by hand today, and the cold and the hours of wrestling with the half-frozen ground had taken its toll. Sam was wrecked. His hands were cracked and bleeding, his face raw and red, and he was covered head-to-toe with grime and dirt. Working as a pipeliner paid decent, but the work sucked ass. Sam locked the door behind him, dropped his lunch bag on the floor and drifted over to the makeshift pallet next to the heat grate. Sam had bought two towels for the bathroom that doubled as a mattress when they were dry. He stumbled over and collapsed, too tired to shower or change. Just a quick nap and then he'd feel good enough to go through the necessary motions like cleaning up and eating something.

As soon as his head hit the duffle bag that acted as his pillow, Sam was out. He never heard the knock on his door or the surreptitious sound of his determined brother picking the lock.

###

Dean glanced around frowning. This place was … unimpressive. He was even more unimpressed when his roving eyes found one little brother, curled up and looking half beat to death on the floor in the corner. Dean walked over, noting the single heat vent next to Sam's head. He knelt down and hovered a hand over it to find it barely giving off heat - probably why the whole place was freezing.

And Dean was pretty sure the kid was stretched out on ... towels?

Dean's anger piqued. The place was a dive - certainly not worth $1,200. All the kid had was two appliances. He took a peek inside and found milk, cheese and beer. He slammed the door unnecessarily hard, setting the bottles on the door to clinking. And that's when the picture slapped him in the face.

"Shit, Sam." He growled, staring at the girl in her cap and gown, half hoping his anger would wake the kid, but Sam slept on, oblivious, with Dean staring down at him guiltily.

"I guess it's a good thing I ain't a ghost or a shifter, hunh, Sammy?" Dean asked in his regular speaking voice. He plopped down on the floor beside his brother, nudging the kid's shoulder. "Sam! Wake up!"

Sam rocketed into a sitting position instantly, fists up and ready. He glared at Dean.

"You can't stay here, Sammy."

Sam relaxed, scooting back to lean against the wall. His hand wandered to the vent, and he frowned to find it putting off its usual mediocre warmth. He huddled into himself and shivered, tucking his cold hands into his pockets.

"What are you doing here, Dean?"

Dean smirked, "I think they call this a rescue."

Sam stared, offended. "I don't need rescuing. Go find someone who does."

"Oh, Sammy, if this place is any indication of where your head is at right now, trust me. You need rescuin'." His eyes found Sam's chapped hands and face and the dirt that looked as though it might be the only thing holding him together. "What the hell happened to you, anyway?"

Sam sighed, struggling tiredly to his feet. "Just go, Dean." He pleaded, padding into the kitchen. He picked his lunchbox up from where he'd dropped it and began cleaning it out.

Dean followed, watching him shove a few zipper-seal baggies in the trash, then wipe out the inside of the box with a wet dishrag. He let the water run hot and set the Thermos in the sink, filling it and adding a squirt of dish detergent.

"That a lunchbox?" Dean asked, confused. No Winchester had ever been the lunchbox type.

"Yes, Dean. It's a lunchbox. I got a job. Pays good money. You wanna comment on that too?"

Dean was silent, taking in the carnage. Then he spoke, quietly, "Thought I threw that damned picture away."

Sam froze, his eyes going unbidden to Lillie's forever smile. "Yeah, well. I un-threw it away."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Sam …" he started, ready to reassure his brother, yet again, that he wasn't a monster.

"Dean. Just stop, alright? We both know any platitudes you spout at me right now are gonna be lies. Just … just stop it with the act."

Dean looked away, angry. He fished Sam's phone from his pocket. "You left this, by the way."

Sam glanced over, his face paling instantly. His eyes traveled upward to connect with his brother's before he looked away. The sudden sad look on his face was haunting.

"I don't want it."

"Sammy, you gotta know something."

Sam shook his head, upending the lunchbox to dry in the dish drainer.

"I … I listened to the message. It wasn't me."

Sam stopped in his three-step trek across the kitchen. He looked at his brother, irritated. If Dean was going to stand there a lie to him again … "Yeah, it was." Sam said, hard.

Dean swallowed, seeing where this was going. "No. It wasn't, Sam. Listen, I did call you that night. I left you a message, but Ruby …"

Sam suddenly laughed out loud, and the noise was grating, hurtful. "Seriously, Dean? You're gonna stand there and lie to me to my face? Oh wait, that's right. That's what you do, isn't it? Kinda your move."

"Sam, dammit. I'm not lying. I would never say shit like that to you! How could you even think I would?"

"Oh, I don't know, Dean. Maybe cause you called me FROM YOUR PHONE and left it ON MINE! Don't see how anyone else could be responsible, unless someone had a gun to your head. Did someone have a gun to your head when you told me I was a bloodsucking freak, Dean? How about when old man Merrill contracted with you to kill me? He have a gun? Hunh, Dean?"

Dean was suddenly angry. "Dammit, Sam …"

"Just go! You shouldn't have come here. Nothing you could say will change anything. I'll still have done the things I've done, and you'll still think I'm a m-monster. So just go." Sam strode to the tiny bathroom, locking himself in. It was childish, yes. But Winchesters were well practiced at seeking solace in itty bitty bathrooms.

"I don't think you're a monster!" Dean called after him, pissed. "Sasquatch!" He added for good measure.

"Whatever!" Sam returned, his voice muffled.

Dean leaned against the sink, his eyes wandering around the bare room as he fought to get his thoughts in order. "And if you're makin' so much money, how come you're fucking sleeping on towels!" He yelled, satisfyingly.

"Cause I only get paid once a month, and it hasn't come around yet!" Sam exploded from behind the door. "And what's it any of your business anyway?"

"You ARE my business, Sam. Like it or not!" Dean confronted him. "I just can't shut off 30-odd years of lookin' after your annoying ass!"

"Oh, that's rich, Dean! Real rich! So did that come into play when you had your meeting with Merrill? Hunh? Were you looking after my annoying ass then?"

"Sam, I swear to …"

"Get out."

Dean flinched, physically flinched. "What?"

"Out. Get out. This is my home, and I want you out."

Dean felt his face draining of color. In all the fights they'd ever had, none had ever resulted in Sam actually throwing him out. Sure, maybe he'd thrown him across the room a time or two - but never … out.

"You throwing me out, Sam?"

Sam swallowed hard, unable to meet his brother's eyes. He nodded.

"You want me to go? Really go? Cause make no mistake, Sam. I'll go. You don't need me? That's fine. You think I'm interfering? I can stop. Is that what you want, Sammy? You want me to stop interfering in your life?"

Sam nodded. "That's what I want, Dean."

Dean stared hard at his brother, willing the younger boy to meet his eyes and see how deeply those words had cut him. Sam wouldn't though.

Dean defined himself in a lot of different ways. Nearly 40 years of the lonely hunter's life had left him plenty of time for introspection. He was a classic rock fan, a classic cars fan, a lover of classy ladies and cold beer, a loyal son, even a son of a bitch when the situation warranted it.

First and foremost though, he was an older brother. That had always been the number one job that made Dean Winchester who he was. Everyone who knew him knew how fiercely protective he'd always been of Sam. He willed his brother to understand that. Otherwise …

"You want me to just turn it off? That's what you're saying?"

Sam looked him straight in the eye. "I want you to go away, Dean. Go away and don't come back."

Dean blinked. He bit his lower lip to stop the tremble he felt beginning there. Then he turned on his heel and walked out Sam's door, boots thudding like heartbeats on the rickety wooden steps beneath him.

Sam closed the door silently behind him and moved to the window that overlooked the street, watching as his brother reached the pavement and strode determinedly away without looking back.


	15. Let the World Blow Up

Dean was not going to cry, dammit. He was a grown man, not some … some schoolgirl, mourning the loss of her first boyfriend. He swiped at his eyes and situated himself behind the wheel of the old Impala.

Felt like home. Felt like … like he belonged there. And that was good because apparently Sam, the kid he had mostly raised and would happily die for, had cut him loose. At least there was somewhere left that still felt right.

Sam had washed his hands of him, and truthfully, Dean didn't blame him. What he'd done was pretty unforgivable, he'd just … he'd thought … He and Sam had been through stuff like this before. They'd fight, and they'd each say things they regretted and didn't mean. But they'd always listened to each other. When one or the other was ready to apologize, it was always met with an open ear.

Neither of them had ever tossed the other one out into the cold night, saying he never wanted to see his brother again.

Well, til now anyway.

Dean cursed. He rounded the corner for home, and there was the bar just like it was waiting for him. For having spent a lot of time in this town as a teen, Dean had never had much opportunity to explore the nightlife. He'd usually been too busy hunting a fugly, chauffeuring Sammy to a science fair or visiting one of the numerous libraries around town to research the next case. There hadn't been a lot of time, growing up, to concentrate on the things he enjoyed doing himself.

He wished Sam could remember back that far because Dean had spent a hell of a lot of time picking his brother up and dropping him off for about seven years straight there.

Maybe Sam had the right idea about the old gang splitting up. Maybe it was time he took a little downtime and just sewed some wild oats.

The bar in Dean's headlights was one of the initial three that he'd searched that first night he'd first come to town looking for his brother. He'd liked it instantly. He remembered it had an air of anonymity that Dean appreciated. The oldest Winchester was all about the don't ask, don't tell, after all.

Maybe he'd just chase down a couple cold beers and a hot brunette and let the world blow up around him.

On a whim, he pulled over and stepped out, locking the Impala behind him. He stretched - long and loud - then headed inside, completely missing the old man with the long gray hair who stepped out of the old truck behind him.

###

Sam looked around, smiling. The bar was … appropriate. Sam had been avoiding places just like this for months, fearing he'd look up one day and suddenly see Dean at the pool tables, but the older boy hadn't been round in weeks, hadn't tried to call … nothing. Sam was sure Dean finally realized what Sam had meant when he'd asked him to leave and not come back. .

And a good night of blowing off steam was overdue. Sam worked hard all day, he deserved a Friday night celebration once in awhile. He sat up to the bar and smiled at the bartender when she made eyes at him. She sat the whiskey down in front of him and lingered. Sam was considering the offer when the conversation off to his right caught his ear.

" … find out?"

"We locked up some old guy, Merrill."

"Think he did it?"

Sam glanced sideways to see an older man, still dressed in his state police uniform, sigh and sit back. "Think he's good for it. Kid's uncle said Merrill had been by, threatening him."

"What about?"

"Some business deal that went wrong. Kid backed out on him or something." The cop stretched, "Damn. It's been a long two weeks. That case - it's all anyone can talk about. Never been so glad to arrest someone in my life.

Sam frowned; his hand holding the whiskey glass trembled.

"You made the arrest?"

"Yep. Guy wasn't local, stayin' at that old motel on the end of town. Cold bastard too. Wore solid black contacts, freakiest shit I ever saw. It was a shame. The kid was only in his thirties."

"You caught that one, right?"

The cop tossed back his whiskey, "Wish I hadn't. Nineteen years on the force and never saw that much blood at a scene. Whole damned alley was painted in it. If that kid lives, I'll be surprised. Son of a bitch who did that was one cold fucker."

"They say when he'll get out of the hospital?"

The cop shook his head, grinning, "Damned fool kid checked himself out like three days later. Headed back to that old salvage yard out on 40 with his uncle. If he don't die from the six stab wounds, it'll probably be infection or tetanus that gets him."

The other guy snorted, "Funny."

But the old cop sobered, "No, it wasn't funny at all. Probably the saddest thing I ever seen. This poor kid in agony, blood pouring out every side of him, and he keeps calling out for his brother. Whoever did it just left him there lying in the alley next to the damned dumpster like they took him out with the trash. Worst part of all? Kid was in the hospital for four days, nearly dyin', just him and the old uncle. The brother never did show up."


	16. Real Fear

Sam made it outside before vomiting in the alleyway between the bar and the apartment building next door. Drink and bartender forgotten, he knelt by the brick wall on his knees, heaving, tears running down his face.

Dean.

They'd been talking about Dean.

" _... never saw that much blood at a scene. Whole damned alley was painted in it. If that kid lives, I'll be surprised. Son of a bitch who did that was one cold fucker."_

Oh God. Please let him be okay. Please. Sam's eyes closed, and he pictured it against his will. Dean, probably coming out of a bar. Had to have been drunk to get caught out that unaware.

Alone.

He shouldn't have been alone. Sam should have … he should have been there. Should have had his brother's back, like always. He could see it …could hear it …

" _... blood pouring out every side of him, and he keeps calling out for his brother. Whoever did it just left him there lying in the alley next to the damned dumpster like they took him out with the trash."_

Sam hadn't been there. Dean had needed him, had called out for him, and Sam hadn't come. Dean and Bobby had been all alone. They'd gone through this tragedy alone … weeks ago.

Weeks.

Dean could be … he could be … by now.

Sam made a noise that didn't sound human. Standing, he quickly surveyed his options, settling on a nondescript, blue minivan parked across the street on a quiet corner. In record time, he was inside and settled, rocketing toward Singer Salvage like the devil, himself, was chasing.

###

Bobby sat by the bed, his eyes trained on the ghostly white figure that occupied his downstairs room. The doc had come and gone - someone that Bobby knew through a friend of a friend of a friend.

Someone who wouldn't carry tales and who would be honest with him about Dean's injuries. Bobby had made sure to find someone who wouldn't sugarcoat the truth.

But now, he was sort of wishing he hadn't been so thorough.

Dean was dying. Probably only hours left.

By this time tomorrow, Bobby would likely be all alone and contemplating another hunter's funeral.

And just like that day weeks ago when Dean had first shown up with Sam in tow, Bobby didn't think he could do it.

Sam.

If only they'd found him before Merrill had found Dean.

The kid had no idea his brother was dying right under his nose, and when he found out one day … when it was too late … well … Bobby knew how that would go down.

Being on the outs with someone when they passed on … Bobby wouldn't wish that on his worst enemy, let alone his boys. If they weren't both so damned stubborn …

But the old hunter had to grin at that. They'd come by that stubborn pretty honestly, between himself and their daddy. And the way he'd heard it, their mother could hold her own in that department too.

Those two boys had never stood a chance.

Bobby looked down at his oldest fondly. He took Dean's hand in his own and grinned through his tears. "Your daddy was THE stubbornest SOB I ever did know. He'd kick your ass ten ways from Sunday, Dean, if he was here right now, you know. Gettin' fall-down drunk like that, letting your guard down. He'd say, 'Son, I'm disappointed in you. Can't believe you let this happen.' Then he'd stumble into a wall or two and go about his way. Damned fool never could take his own advice."

Bobby waited for a snarky reply, a shift, a moan … anything at all.

But Dean slept on, oblivious. He'd stopped waking up days ago, and Bobby had called the doc in a panic, wanting to take the kid back to the hospital. But doc had said there was nothing they could do for Dean there, that Bobby couldn't do for him here.

It was … it was just … comfort care at this point.

It was just waiting.

There were no machines they could hook Dean up to that would save his life. No magical medications. No treatments.

The only thing that could save the kid now, was Dean. He had to want to beat this thing. And he just … didn't.

Doc said his injuries were bad, but he'd seen people come back from worse.

The only thing keeping Dean in the veil was Dean.

Kid wanted to die, apparently. And deep down, Bobby knew why. He knelt down close and whispered in his kid's ear. "Come on, Dean. You gotta fight this thing. You gotta FIGHT, cause Sam and me … we can't do it for you. You hear me? I need you, you idjit. Sam, he needs you. Just cause you two had a spat, don't mean you get to check out all together. Come on, Dean. FIGHT!"

Bobby waited.

Nothing.

He jostled the kid's hand. "Please, Dean. FIGHT. Don't do this to me, kid. I don't deserve it. And your brother, wherever he is, he don't deserve it either. You know what's gonna happen to Sam when he finally shows up back here a week from now or a month or a year and finds you gone? Hunh? Kid won't survive that, Dean. He won't. I can promise ya' … I …"

Dean groaned, and Bobby froze.

"Dean? Son, can you hear me?"

Nothing.

"Dean, come on. I'm an old man. If you let go, who's gonna be here for your brother? You think of that?"

Dean shifted restlessly, his face drawing into a pained grimace.

"That's it, boy. You chew on that for a bit. Sam needs you, you damned, stubborn idjit."

And then, because Bobby was concentrating so intently on making Dean awaken that he never heard the tires crunch over the drive or the screen door open and close, Sam was suddenly standing in the doorway, face wrecked, eyes terrified.

"Bobby! I heard De …" Sam's eyes fell on the bed and on the prone form over which Bobby ministered, and his voice broke. "Dean?" He stumbled forward, falling to his knees on the floor across the bed from Bobby. His eyes found the older man's. "Bobby? How bad?"

Bobby smiled, ignoring the wetness that had found its way onto his cheeks at Sam's arrival. "Maybe better now, you're here. Talk to him, son. Give him a reason to keep fightin' cause the doc says he's given up."

Sam nodded, swallowing hard. He reached over and took his brother's hand.

"Dean." Sam cleared his throat. "Dean, I'm here. I'm here, and you're gonna be okay, okay?"

But in the bed, Dean slept on, his face expressionless, his boundless energy stilled.

And Sam felt real fear.


	17. California

Sam studied the rearview as Bobby's house faded from sight. It didn't feel right somehow. Even the Impala felt it, shuddering once as Sam pulled from Bobby's long and dusty drive onto the main road, putting Sioux Falls in the past, in the distance.

Memories. Those were the things. They could either light you up, or they could kill you, and seldom was there an in-between.

Sam's mind wandered as he held the wheel of the old car. Maybe once it had been a classic. Now it was just … old. And it handled like something from another decade; the wheel was shaky, the belts squealed.

But Sam would never dream of driving anything else.

He'd just have to stop somewhere along the way and get it tuned up, that was all. Just like his life, his future - a little fine tuning from skilled hands would get it back up and running eventually.

It would take a while.

It might take a damned lifetime.

A lifetime to fix things.

A lifetime to forget.

Hie eyes shifted sideways to the empty passenger seat, and he saw himself as a boy sitting there - Head thrown back, laughing.

He smiled.

He could smell Dean's aftershave. It was as much a part of this car as the leather seats, the worn floor mats, the half-empty bottle of Jack shoved under the driver's seat. And Sam was certain that even if he drove for weeks with all fours windows down, the driver's side of the Impala would always smell like the scented leather of his brother's old jacket.

He shook his head, a lopsided grin starting.

"What's so damned funny, Sasquatch?" Dean growled irritably from the back seat.

Sam snorted, "Nothing, Dean. Nothing at all."

"Yeah, well your 'nothing at all' is interfering with my ability to enjoy my Busty Asian Beauties." Dean rattled his magazine for effect.

"I didn't say a thing!"

"You were thinkin' it. You think too damned loud. Anybody ever tell you that?"

"You, I think." Sam grinned again, he couldn't help it. Dean could be as damned crabby as he wanted to be, just so long as he … he was.

"Well … good. Somebody should."

"Got it. I think too loud. I'll try to tune it down some. Will that make you happy?" Sam met his brother's tired eyes in the mirror, noting his pale color and the grimace that he wore when he thought no one was looking. Sam frowned. "You need a top-off?" He reached forward into the dash and grabbed Dean's painkillers, tossing them back to the boy who reclined in the back on a sea of pillows and comforters. They'd taken just about every soft, cushiony thing Bobby owned, but the old man hadn't minded.

So long as Dean was comfortable.

Dean caught the bottle upside the forehead, swearing and shooting his brother the stink eye in the mirror.

"Sorry." Sam tried to smother his chuckle. "Thought you were looking."

"I sure as hell hope your navigatin' skills are better than your aim." Dean shot back. "You hurt my baby and …"

"You'll kill me." Sam finished in unison with his brother. "Relax, Dean. I know how to drive."

"Good." Dean glared, and Sam swore he could feel the back of his neck burning. "How long is this gonna take anyway?"

"The specialist is in California, Dean. It's gonna take awhile."

Dean was silent, and Sam knew he was thinking about all the what-might-happens.

"Stop it."

Dean started, "Stop what?"

"Worryin'."

"I'm not worried. When have you ever known me to worry, Sammy? I'm the original 'fly by the seat of my pants' guy."

"Yeah, if you say so." Sam found that statement hysterically funny, considering Dean worried all the damned time over the least little thing, mostly Sam, but he didn't argue. The thought of the wheelchair that took up most of the Impala's trunk was sobering enough to keep his tongue in check. He hated the damned thing. He could only imagine how Dean felt about it.

Sam stared forward, his mind drifting back to that day he'd burst back into Bobby's house and back into his brother's life. The older boy had been just about one heartbeat away from dead, and it had taken a lot of begging and pleading on Sam's part to get Dean to come back from wherever it was he was trying to go.

Dean had done it though. Just like Sam had known he would. Dean would no more leave him alone to fight off the fuglies than he would cut out his own heart. Sam had played on that mercilessly.

And Dean had made it most of the way back.

He still had a long way to go, though.

That damned wheelchair.

Dean couldn't walk. Not even a little. The stab wound in his back had come a little too close to his spinal cord, and the scar tissue that resulted had caused some kind of a disconnection from the tops of Dean's thighs on down. He could still take care of his bodily functions. Hell, he could still enjoy sex if he wanted to.

It was just walking that was off the list. Walking, jogging, running, standing and Dean's personal favorite - pacing - those were no longer options.

Unless the specialist that Bobby had dug up near Sacramento had a new trick up his sleeve. Dean was stuck in that damned chair for the rest of his life.

Sam wouldn't let that happen, mostly because he knew that a life like that would slowly kill his brother.

The demon that had ridden Ford Merrill into the bar that night might have killed the old man, but no way in hell was he getting Dean too.

Sam would do whatever he had to do to get his brother the help he needed.

Whatever he had to.

And God help anyone or anything that stood in his way.

He reached over and twisted the dial on the radio, settling back as the first strains of Zeppelin's Black Dog burst forth.

Dean settled back comfortably into his makeshift nest, eyes closing, smile forming. "Like balm for the soul, Sammy. Balm for the soul. Gotta love Black Dog." Then his eyes were open again, and he was excitedly planning. "A black dog! That's the perfect hunt. That's what we're lookin' for first once I get back on my feet. It's a sign, Sammy. Tell me that ain't a sign."

Sam glanced back at his brother's animated face, happier than he'd seen it in weeks, and nodded. "Hell yeah, it's a sign. A black dog it is." He leaned over and cranked the radio up another decibel.

Sam had always despised black dogs.

Well, until today.

\- The End -

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Thank you for reading, reviewing and sticking around til the end. It means more than you know._


End file.
